Donnie stopped in the doorway, frozen. A grisly looking man leaned against the bar, his gray-blue eyes staring at him intently. The smirk that stretched his lips made Donnie feel wary. The man at the piano looked over, his own dark brown eyes gentle and worn, and without a flicker of recognition turned back to the keys, plunking away at a song people had given up caring about.
"Donnie, m'boy, come on in." The man at the bar said with a smile, his slightly yellow teeth short and straight.
Like a Rattegan, Donnie thought,
or maybe a Staigovald. Donald sat down, making himself comfortable on a stool next to the friendly man. He took note of the old bag resting on the bar. He could only assume that there was a large sum in there, judging by how the bag bulged. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the bar, and whistled a tuneless song that blended in with the monotonous tinkling of the piano. The man just kept smiling at him, prolonging the moment before he began to speak again. Donnie was familiar with this technique, but wasn't prepared for him to use it. He felt himself fidgeting without thought: running a finger over his eyebrow, straightening his jacket, rubbing the corner of his belt buckle with a fingertip.
Finally, the man patted him on the shoulder and said, "I heard you're in the business of findin' people."
Donnie let out a breath of relief. He thought for sure that this was going to be the type of situation where he was mistaken for someone who owed a lot of people some money. That mistaken identity crisis happened a lot around here, though no one really seemed to care--as long as they got their money, there was no problem, as far as they were concerned.
"I wonder if you could tell me whereabouts Wes Monfer might be."
Oh, so it's that kind of situation.Donnie sighed, and the man, seeing his discomfort, pushed the Keystones a little closer. "Oh, come now, don't be so quick to dismiss. I come bearing gifts."
Donnie pushed the sack away, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid that that is somewhat of an impossibility. See, Wes Monfer--"
"--owes me a favor," the man finished, his eyes suddenly becoming hard. He reached in the bag and pulled out the large 100 Keystone stone, gripping it tightly. He placed it lightly against the bar, still gripping it tightly. His knuckles were white with the strain.
"Now, let's try this, one more time. And so
everyone can hear me," he said suddenly, projecting his voice so that it filled the whole bar. The piano man stopped and stared blankly, and the rest of the men gave up their pretending and let their attention latch onto the man.
"I'm looking for a Wes Monfer. If any'a you know where to find him, speak now, or this kid gets it."
His arm was around Donnie's neck before he had time to react. The hold was tight, sure. Donnie thanked the gods that he didn't have asthma. He felt the cool of the rock against his scalp, and warmth of the man's fingertips brush his forehead. He calmed his heart rate as best he could, but it was hard to feel safe when a strange, fairly strong man threatens to bludgeon your skull open with money.
"I... I..." Donnie wheezed, tugging at the arm around his neck, "I know... Monfer... living..."
The man sitting at the bar glared at Donnie as the man let go, still holding the Keystone to his forehead. The hand attached to the arm that had been sleeperholding Donnie now held his shoulder tightly. The man was all smiles again, though he did not move the stone. His brow arched, giving Donnie the go-ahead.